Undoing
by takethetardis97
Summary: Following in the footsteps of late uncle, Flynn White works as a beat cop on the streets of Albuquerque. Little does he know that the past he's been trying desperately to forget will resurface in the form of Heisenberg's old partner.
1. Chapter 1

A single, beat-up police car was parked on the street corner of a seedy neighborhood in the outskirts of Albuquerque. In the driver's seat of the vehicle was a middle-aged Latino man with a bag of corn chips in one hand and an open magazine in the other. His partner, or more accurately, his responsibility, sat eagerly in the passenger's seat with wide brown eyes and a grin that tugged slightly to one side.

Flynn White was only twenty-five years old, but he was prepared to take care of any law-breaking should it arise in the ghettos of ABQ. After years of arduous workouts and dedication fueled by the memory of his Uncle Hank, the young man could finally walk and even run with little indication of his crippling condition. The man was born resilient, as one has to be when suffering with cerebral palsy, and through his exertion, the charming tilt of his mouth had become the sole remnant of his affliction. Now a new beat cop for the APD, Flynn knew that Hank would be proud. The boy was all too ready to make his first bust.

"So… uh… when does the excitement happen?" Flynn tentatively asked Officer Reyes, who had just shoved his mouth to capacity with Doritos. The older cop chewed, his thick mustache dancing above his undulating jawline, and he swallowed with a large gulp.

"Kid, you've been watching too many movies," the man replied after his chips were swallowed, and Flynn suddenly felt like he was in one of those cliché cop shows: the ones where the plucky new guy and the mature, experienced officer exchange witty banter whilst on the job. Sure, Flynn knew it was cliché and overdone, but their daily back-and-forth made being a beat cop feel cool as hell.

The digital clock glimmered red with the time, 7:36, and night began to fall outside of the car window. Officer Reyes rolled down the muddled glass and lit a cigarette while Flynn tried to remember if cops were technically allowed to smoke while on duty. The grey smoke rose gracefully into the purple sky, and the red digital six on the clock flickered into a glowing seven. The dodgy neighborhood was unusually peaceful.

"Hang on," Reyes spoke cautiously, diverting his attention from his Sport's Illustrated to a single porch light in the dark street. Flynn followed his gaze, which landed on a small house on the end of the empty street. After a few weeks of patrolling the neighborhood, Flynn knew that no one lived in that tiny little house. Nevertheless, an emaciated man with a far-too-large jacket was crouched on the doorstep. "There you go, White," Reyes chuckled, "There's your excitement. Why don't you check this guy out?"

"Just me?" Flynn asked, peering suspiciously at the figure on the stoop. Reyes let out another muffled laugh, eyes back on his magazine.

"Sure, kid," he replied, "He doesn't look too scary. And I'll be able to see you from here if there's trouble." Flynn nodded, creaking open the car window, stepping out of the seat with long legs, and straightening his badge on his chest. The young man walked with purpose towards the huddle drifter, forgetting his fear.

Flynn was only about ten feet away, but the man on the porch step hadn't even looked up. His fingers fumbled with what looked like the edges of a plastic bag under his enormous jacket. Now that he was close enough, Flynn took a proper look at the sad man on the porch. The guy was dressed as elderly hobos on that street would be, but the face that peaked over the large coat was quite young, although irreparably scarred. The man's bones protruded from his face and body, and his crystal blue eyes flickered with pain and bad memories. Flynn took a few hesitant steps forward, the grass crunching beneath his feet. Clearing his throat, he decided to speak to the young vagabond.

"May I help you, sir?" Flynn asked in his rehearsed, good-cop voice. At the sound of the officer's words, the man looked up from his lap with a flip of his overgrown, brownish-blond hair.

"What?" he replied unsteadily, with wide eyes that indicated he was caught off-guard, "Oh… uh, no I'm good, man." With that, the young man stared back into is lap, waiting for the cop to leave. Flynn only planted his feet further into the grass.

"Is this your house?" the young officer asked suspiciously, knowing very well that it wasn't. The guy on the porch recognized his tone, and as a response, gave Flynn his full attention for the first time.

"Look, guy," he began with pleading eyes, "I won't be long. I promise." The young cop stepped closer, aware of the desperation in the poor man's expression. He sighed, already exasperated but feeling a strange compassion for the man well up inside of him.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked delicately, peering around the dark, abandoned neighborhood, "I mean, it's a little suspicious to be sitting in front of a house that nobody owns at 8 o'clock. Or any time, for that matter."

"I know," the man admitted, staring at his hands as he continued, "I'm just… paying my respects. Someone I used to know lived here once." At the end of his sentence, he peered up with shiny eyes at the officer. Flynn felt a sadness grow in his chest, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had to get this loser off of the porch step one way or another, and kindheartedness was not the best way to handle that sort of situation.

"Yeah, well they don't live here anymore so…" he replied with his hands on his hips, "Time to go." Instead of rising, the man on the step cast an eye over Flynn, his gaze trailing down to the nametag on his uniform. The officer grew irritated, knowing exactly what was coming next. It's what always came next.

"Shit, you're not…?" the man on the step gasped, and Flynn groaned audibly. Riled, he finished the young man's thought for him.

"What? Heisenberg's son?" Flynn laughed harshly, weaving a hand through his thick brown hair, "Jesus Christ, eight years and people still won't stop reminding me." The huddled young man straightened up, realizing the officer's frustration.

"You don't understand," he responded defensively, "I knew Mr. White." Flynn laughed at the comment, believing that it was impossible for someone to _truly _know his sneaky, multisided dad. Judging by the way he addressed Flynn's late father, the kid on the doorstep was likely a former student.

"Yeah, I thought I knew him, too," the young cop grumbled, quickly pulling the man up by his arm, "All right pal, up you go."

"Hey!" shouted the young man with the oversized clothes, and Flynn heard the pattering of something dropping to the pavement at their feet. Peering down simultaneously, the two men stood a few feet apart with an innumerable amount of pills on the ground between them.

"What are those?" Flynn asked incredulously, realizing now what he had happened upon. The shorter man's eyes shifted, eventually falling to the ground. His body followed suit, and soon he was attempting to scoop the pills back into the opened ziplock bag from his jacket.

"They're nothing," he insisted, fumbling with the pills in his hands with a few dropping back to the pavement. Flynn bent down to the ground to meet him, raising a single tablet to eye level.

"This doesn't look like nothing," he said reproachfully, "This looks like a shit-ton of painkillers." Feeling guilty under the cop's intense gaze, the man rubbed his hands over his face and into is shaggy hair. Tears welled in his eyes and he sniffled, obviously trying to contain his emotions. Flynn guessed that containing his emotions was not exactly this man's strong suit.

"Look man, can't you just let me do this?" he pleaded in a broken voice, "After tonight, you won't have to deal with me in your beat ever again." Flynn inched closer to the man, who was trembling now.

"Because you'll be dead?" he questioned slightly more severely than he had intended, "I can't just leave a guy to kill himself; that's not how my job works." Despite the cop's reasoning, the man was still shaking his head.

"Officer White, man," he implored, and the respectful address sounded out of place to Flynn, "Everyone will be happier once I'm gone."

"Come on, that can't be true," the young cop attempted to reason, but his heart was already breaking for the wounded man. Still, the young guy shook his head with tears now trickling onto his scarred cheeks.

"No, it is," he answered in a now even and straightforward tone, seeming like he was convincing himself rather than the young officer, "_Literally _everyone would be better off. If my parents knew I was still alive, they'd want me dead, too." Flynn began to disagree, but he could see in those melancholy blue eyes that he was serious. After a few moments of quiet, the man made a final statement. "I'm doing the world a favor, Officer," he said with a heartbreaking smile, "I'm doing _you _a favor."

"Yeah? How would killing yourself be doing me a favor?" Flynn replied angrily, but the desperation was as clear in his own voice as it was in the other man's. Resting back on the front steps, the emaciated man wiped his face and stared the young cop directly in the eye.

"Because I'm Jesse Pinkman."


	2. Chapter 2

"White! Is everything okay over there?"

Flynn's radio sounded, but it took the young man a few moments to respond. Just a small number of feet in front of him was the man with whom his father had committed countless horrible crimes. Flynn quickly remembered his stage of denial; it was back a year or so after Walter White's death, and he didn't want to fully believe that his father was the monster that he was made out to be. The numerous drug deals and murders and random explosions had to have been somebody's fault, but Flynn initially refused to consider that his father was responsible. That is where Pinkman had come in.

"Everything's fine," he replied mechanically into his radio, "W-we're almost done here."

For almost two years after the downfall of the great Heisenberg, Flynn had checked the papers and the television and the computer nearly every day, his eyes glowing murderously in search of the story that reported the death or arrest of Jesse Pinkman. It was a justified hatred, he reasoned; his father hadn't shown the slightest sign of malice before the kid had supposedly reentered his life. Flynn had never even met the man that he, to himself, swore to one day kill. For the first time, that man was standing before him.

"You're a wanted man, Jesse Pinkman," Flynn replied with a bravado that reminded him very much of Hank. Jesse wiped his eyes, nearly laughing at the comment.

"Yeah, thanks for the update, pal," he responded, waving the half-full bag of pills, "You know, I used to be really afraid of jail…" he trailed off looking into Flynn's eyes again. The officer waited a few moments for him to continue, and he did with a sad smile as he twiddled an aspirin between his fingers. "Yeah, you know; the thought of being trapped and alone terrified the shit out of me," he chuckled, as though the fear were naïve, "But I look back on the last eight years… Hell, actually, I look back on my entire life, and I realize that jail would be no different than what I've always lived."

Flynn always thought this would be so easy. The name 'Jesse Pinkman' had become a lost cause for the APD, let alone the rest of the country. Eight years had gone by without a single sighting of the man and now- Flynn had him right where he wanted him. It was poetic justice, really: Heisenberg's son taking down the man responsible for creating Heisenberg.

Except he wasn't responsible for creating Heisenberg, Flynn realized. His father had made himself. Jesse Pinkman was just some kid who didn't know what the hell he was getting himself into.

"You know, for a cop, you're pretty slow with the handcuffs," Jesse pressed, presenting his wrists with no intention of struggle, "Don't worry, I'm not resisting arrest. We don't need to add that to the list." He looked up thoughtfully in a casual way that didn't fit the circumstances. "Not that you can add to a life sentence," he murmured emotionlessly, wrists still offered to the officer. Pinkman waited patiently, but Flynn made no movement towards his handcuffs. In that moment, he had forgotten his badge.

"Why you?" Flynn questioned, and silence fell.

"What?" Pinkman uttered, lowering his wrists to his sides and studying the cop with questioning eyes. Flynn was frozen in his position, his eyes slightly watering from either his failure to blink or the wall of pure emotion that had just hit him.

"My father had always been there for me growing up," he began distantly, "One day, he wasn't. One day, I find out that the reason my dad didn't come home at night was because he was spending what was left of his life with some old student of his instead of with his family." Flynn was still completely overcome by shock and his eyes were fixed on Pinkman, who was now focused on the grass under his feet. "So my question is," the officer gulped, holding back the anger that was just beginning to surface, "What makes you so special?"

"Nothing," Jesse replied reflexively, but he immediately saw the flash of anger and disbelief in the younger man's eyes, "I don't know. All I know is that he did all of it for his family."

"Don't bullshit me," Flynn snarled instinctively, "I got enough of that with him. Nothing he did benefitted me." The other man immediately looked away with guilt, remembering Walter White towards the end. No, that wasn't a man who understood family.

"I'm sorry, Walt, but I knew his intentions were good to begin with," Jesse attempted to reassure him, but Flynn's face only grew more reddened with rage.

"D-don't you dare call me that, Pinkman," he shouted, reverting back to his stuttered voice despite himself. He stepped closer, towering over the frightened, disheveled man.

"Isn't that your name?" Jesse asked in a timid voice, raising his hands in defense. The officer took a half-second to collect himself. He was aware that he was beginning to act unprofessional.

"I haven't gone by that in years," he informed Pinkman in a solemn tone. "It's Flynn." "Actually," he amended in a more callous voice, "it's Officer White to you." Just then, his radio beeped, and he knew that his partner must have seen him shouting.

"Is everything all right over there? Do you need back up?" Reyes inquired instantly. Flynn's anger returned; it was not a good time to pester him.

"Just give me a goddamn second, Reyes," he barked into the radio. He shot a vengeful look towards Jesse, who was back on the stoop looking downright terrified. _For a coldblooded drug dealer, this guy was a pussy._

"Jesus, White, what has gotten into you?" Reyes replied through the static in the radio, "Anyway, our shift is almost over." Flynn took a deep breath to try to calm himself once more. For the sake of his job, he needed to get out of there: but he sure as hell was not finished with Jesse Pinkman.

"You might want to handcuff me before your shift is done," the guy on the doorstep piped, standing again and holding out his arms, "I mean, the sooner I'm put away the better, right?" Flynn stared at the man he'd loathed for years and simply shook his head.

"I'm not going to arrest you," Flynn muttered, much to his own and Jesse's surprise, "I'm going to be back here by ten tonight. You better be here, and you better be alive. Do you understand, Jesse Pinkman?" The blond man looked completely thunderstruck, and he placed his arms by his sides.

"Um… yeah. I guess," he stuttered, unsure how to proceed. This was supposed to be the end.

"Good," Flynn replied, striding confidently back to the battered police car at the other end of the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Jesse wasn't quite sure why he had come back to the house as the officer had ordered.

The man had dealt with a lot of hate directed at him; he'd dealt with that before Heisenberg. Ever since he had started wearing baggy clothes and associating with junkies like him in high school, he had suddenly become the scum of the Earth. Post-Heisenberg, he brought different kind of hate, though. There probably wasn't a soul on the Earth who wouldn't pray for his death if they knew what he had done. That night, he was finally going to give into their wishes.

He could hear the flick of his lighter as he ignited it, and he lit the cigarette that dangled from his mouth with the fire, the sole source of light for as far as he could see on the abandoned street. Pinkman knew that it was time for the beat cops with the night shift to patrol the area, so he refrained from turning on the porch light so as not to draw any attention. He seriously contemplated doing the deed while the officer was gone, surrounded by good memories on her old porch step; if only the damn kid hadn't taken his pills. He'd have to drive to get more, and anyways, he wanted to give the other man any sense of closure that he could offer. Jesse knew he owed him that.

"Get in the car."

In all of his experiences, those four words have never meant anything good.

"Yeah, okay."

He stamped on his cigarette and took the passenger's seat in the slightly battered Ford Taurus, not even bothering with the seatbelt. He waited for the car to start rolling so he could return to his nebulous thoughts as he watched bits of Albuquerque fly by through the window. The car didn't budge.

"Come on, Pinkman, you're with a police officer," Flynn growled, turning his head to the dirty mass in his passenger's seat, "At least pretend to be a law-abiding citizen. Put on your seatbelt." Jesse's mouth hung slightly open as he pulled the grey belt across his chest. The kid had the same condescending tone as his father did, and it was eerie that after all these years, another White was ordering him around and talking to him like he was an idiot. Maybe he was already in Hell.

Jesse's seatbelt clicked in the holder, and the engine revved as Flynn White turned the key in the ignition. Pinkman could barely distinguish the structures in the darkness outside the car window, but his blue eyes peered out anyway and became lost in thought. He hadn't seen ABQ in so long; after years of running and hiding he thought that he'd like some resolution in the town where he grew up. He was stupid to believe nothing would go wrong. If he hadn't come back, he could have been on the edge of life somewhere. He could have heard Jane and Andrea again, sweetly beckoning him to die.

Or he could have seen nothing but blackness. But even that was preferable to living.

The car slowed, rolling over a driveway of a typical suburban house. _Like Mr. White's house_, Jesse thought, but he quickly shoved from his mind the demon who'd haunted him for years. The wheels stopped rolling; coming to a gentle halt, and Jesse had forgotten that Flynn had been driving the entire time. The taller man stepped from the car, and Pinkman followed uncomfortably after.

Flynn held open the door for the other man, and Jesse was sure he was going to die. There was no way in hell that Heisenberg's son invited him into his home to have a rational conversation. Jesse stood in the clean house, reminded of the time when he had done the same in Mr. White's house when he was covered in blue toilet water. This time, though, his host had no reason not to despise him. As he found himself saying so many times over the years, he deserved whatever was going to happen.

"The guest room is in the back," Flynn said gently, catching Jesse totally off-guard, "Get some rest, Pinkman. You look exhausted."

The whole walk back to the spare bedroom, Jesse was gaping. He supposed the horrors would come in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

The small house was filled with the intoxicating aroma of pancake batter, which was sizzling on the stove in front of the tall, shaggy-haired young man. Flynn rubbed his hand over his face in exhaustion, feeling the bristle of his five-o-clock shadow on his hardened palms. It was Sunday: a day off for the man and one he usually began with a home-cooked breakfast. The sweet smell of batter and fresh berries had nearly led him to forget his houseguest, who he'd assumed was still fast asleep in the small spare bedroom.

_Not sure what there is to say, _he thought as he flipped the pancake over the stove. After years of crafting the perfect script to follow should he ever meet Jesse Pinkman, Flynn was surprisingly lost for words. He shook his head at his troubling situation and watched attentively as the soft, delicate batter developed a toughened exterior over the heat of the pan. He used the spatula to scrape the fluffy disks from the metal, stacking them on a plate and placing them on the table. Now, he waits.

The floor from down the hall began to creak, and the thin man stepped from the bedroom hesitantly. Flynn tried to relax his face so as not to scare Jesse back into the room. All of his pent up aggression towards Pinkman had suddenly been challenged by how perceptibly fragile the man was. The man at the table set out two plates, trying to seem as welcoming as he could be under the circumstances. Jesse continued his wary steps until he eventually reached the table, and he sat in the seat across the officer.

"Eat something, Jesse," Flynn insisted, noticing that the scrawny guy across the table had made no attempt to claim the food in front of him. The young man reminded Flynn of his mother in his mannerisms; he seemed so helpless yet so apathetic towards his own wellbeing. When Pinkman hadn't moved, the dark-haired man reached across the table and forked a few pancakes onto his plate for him. With shaking fingers, Jesse picked up his fork and gradually began to eat. Flynn tried to diminish the feeling of pity that grew from the sight of the withered young man, but Jesse's unconcealed vulnerability and disregard for his own life was not helping things. Out of nowhere, Pinkman stopped nibbling at his food and stared Flynn directly in the eyes with newfound confidence.

"Look man," he started bluntly, his gaze unwavering, "If you're going to yell at me, do it already. If you're going to waste me, just get it over with. Don't sit here and pretend to be 'Mr. Nice Guy' when you have some ulterior motive. That's the kind of shit your dad would do, and right now that's too much for me to deal with." Flynn was offended by the comparison, but he had finally found his words.

"Why did you two do those horrible things?" Flynn questioned, not tiptoeing anymore. He analyzed the guy in front of him and could not picture in his wildest imagination that the scared kid could've done what he'd supposedly done. Jesse was Flynn's age when he'd experienced all of that devastation, while the younger man couldn't even come to terms with the fact that he might have to kill one day in the line of duty. Jesse was smiling, though, glad that Flynn had finally gotten to the point.

"When I started out, it was the money," Jesse admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "Of course it was for the money. I was twenty-four, I had no skills; your dad made me believe that even more. But he wanted me, and to this day I don't know why." Jesse looked onto his plate with sad blue eyes and continued. "Nobody ever wanted my help, you know, besides people who wanted to buy some weed off of me. Nobody actually even wanted me around. Honestly, it was a tough offer to refuse." Flynn looked on at Jesse, sympathy growing in his chest again despite himself.

"You did all of that because someone wanted your help?" Flynn asked incredulously.

"No, man, that was only part of it," Jesse insisted, rubbing his face. Flynn sighed, ignoring his breakfast and wondering what other influences were involved in turning the skinny emotional wreck before him into the supposed killer that was wanted by the police.

"What other parts were there?" Flynn demanded, losing his cool for a brief moment before he recollected himself. Jesse rubbed his face again in frustration, as if trying to recall.

"Desperation?" he replied, as if unsure, "I cooked with Mr. White because I had nowhere left to go. I did all the bad things I did so I could keep cooking with Mr. White. And hell, don't get me wrong, I tried to back out like, a million times. But somehow, every single time, no matter how many times it bit me in the ass, that bastard could convince me to join back up again." He unwittingly drove his fork into his plate, again trying to hold back tears. Flynn looked down at his own plate, watching his pancakes slowly disintegrate under the syrup.

"Yeah, he was always good at that," Flynn admitted. He had vague memories of it from when he was really young; even then, his father had used his unrivaled powers of manipulation against him. Walter White could never have been held accountable for what he did to people, for in his words there was no real evidence that he meant any harm. It had taken Flynn seventeen years to even realize that his father possessed the trait, and it seemed that it took Jesse a while to figure it out as well. By the time Heisenberg's true nature was revealed, it was already too late for both of them.

"Officer White," Jesse began, and the pain washed from his face and left an expression of the utmost sincerity, "Flynn. I want you to know how extremely sorry I am. For everything your family has been through: you and Mrs. White and your sister and Mrs. Schrader- oh god, I'm especially sorry about what happened to Hank. I know that sorry doesn't even begin to cut it. It's just, I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"Jesse," Flynn gulped, emotionally crushed by the extent of the young man's guilt, "I don't blame you for all those things." Jesse peered up from the table, looking as though a light had just returned to his darkened soul. The man was no longer the one to blame for the son of Heisenberg. Flynn finally understood that a cancer had torn their family apart: the same disease that had caused Jesse's misery and so many deaths.

That cancer was Walter White.


	5. Chapter 5

A skeleton sat at the kitchen table; her pale blue eyes were glass, still and void of emotion. The blonde hair that draped from her withering head was loose and lifeless, and her old clothes where always two sizes too large for her disappearing body. Between bony fingers, Skyler White dangled a nearly empty bottle of wine: she'd just finished one off two hours prior. Her unwavering gaze was lost in the nothingness in front of her. It was not uncommon for her to lose herself in thought.

"Mom?" rang a child's voice from behind her, but Skyler didn't turn around. Holly waited patiently, brushing back a strand of white-blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail. In her small fingers, she grasped a single sheet of paper that she had received from school earlier that day.

"Yes, sweetie?" the mother's unemotional response finally came, and with a single gulp, the second bottle of wine had been completely emptied. Skyler's gaze remained within the confines of the glass bottle on the table as she heard the tentative footsteps draw nearer from behind her.

"I got my report card today," Holly began, smiling slightly, "I got all As." The nine-year-old was right beside her mother at this point, presenting the sheet of paper, offering it to the woman. Skyler didn't budge; not even her eyes.

"That's wonderful," she replied softly, barely moving her thin lips, but Holly could sense the insincerity. From the time she was very young, the little girl knew when her mother didn't care. She knew it quite well, actually, because Skyler cared about very little.

There was a knock on the door. The little girl looked to her mother, wondering if she should open it, but Skyler still hadn't moved. Holly simply sat on the hardwood floor by the table, ignoring the knocking. Her teachers, after all, had warned her how dangerous strangers could be.

After a few quiet seconds, the knob started to wiggle. Holly could hear the clinking of metal and she watched as the lock shifted on the doorknob. She smiled, because she knew who was standing on her doorstep. It was her favorite person in the world.

"Flynn!" Holly cheered, sprinting to her brother and leaping into his arms. The young man caught his dainty sister with ease, pulling her into his chest. After an embrace that lasted a few short moments, Flynn placed the little girl back on the floor, smiling down at her. His smile faded when he caught a glimpse of his mother, who was still motionlessly perched at the table in the room ahead.

Flynn walked past Holly, bending down to look at the paper that had been abandoned at his mother's feet. Reading it, he peered at his younger sister with sympathetic eyes, and then at his mother with pure anger. He waved one of her empty wine bottles furiously in front of her vacant eyes.

"Jesus mom," he snapped, gazing sadly at the line of As on the report card, and then again at the emptied bottles, "I thought you weren't going to do this anymore." Skyler swallowed visibly, the first sign of emotion she'd shown in hours, and her eyes began to glaze over in tears. Flynn shook his head, disappointed, and carried the two bottles to the recycling bin. "I have to talk to you about something important," he told her firmly, staring back at his younger sister regretfully. Skyler picked up on the implication.

"Holly," she croaked from her spot at the table, "Go to bed, sweetie." The little blonde girl stood in place, suddenly looking downheartedly to the floor.

"But mom," she protested feebly with a heartbreaking sadness in her blue eyes, "I got straight As." Flynn, trying to fight back the tears that stemmed from all the disappointment he knew his sister had faced in her short life, stepped closer to Holly and put a hand on her skinny shoulder. She was too skinny. _God, I hope she feeds you._

"And we are both so proud of you, Holly," Flynn replied, speaking for his mother and smiling sweetly down at the kid, "What say tomorrow, you and I go out to celebrate?" A spark of rare excitement flashed in her baby-blue eyes, and she hugged her brother once again before running back to her bedroom and softly closing the door.

"So," Skyler began testily, "What is this 'important' thing we need to discuss?" Flynn scowled at his mother, still angry that she was drinking again. After all of the AA meetings he'd forced her to attend, he was certain that she'd do what was right for her youngest child and attempt to stay sober. Then again, it had been eight years since Skyler had any semblance of willpower.

"This is about closure, Mom," Flynn began, studying the trembling woman with unhappy eyes, "It's been eight years since he died, and you still let him control your life. For your sake, and for Holly's sake, I'm here to end that." Skyler peered up at her son with a challenging expression. Flynn was secretly happy that he could get any emotion out of her at all.

"How do you plan to bring me closure?" she questioned, almost begging it seemed, "Every time I leave my house, I either get looked at with disapproval or with pity, just because I'm the drunken corpse that's left of Heisenberg's wife. What makes you think you can change things now?"

"Mom," Flynn replied desperately, "At this point, I'm willing to try anything."

Jesse waited by the front window, blue eyes glowing brightly through the glass.


	6. Chapter 6

"H- hello Mrs. White…"

After he had croaked out those few, feeble words, Jesse bowed his head immediately, realizing the mistake in what he had said. Old habits, he supposed.

"It's—uh, actually Ms. Lambert, Jesse," Flynn responded gently before his mother could speak. The younger man had taken the liberty of shutting the door behind Jesse, fully inviting the former drug-addict into his mother's home. Skyler perched at the edge of her chair, dead eyes now flashing with ferocity.

"What the hell is he doing here, Flynn?" she snapped, walking towards her son but fixing her stare on the man by the entrance. Jesse pressed his back to the door, regretting his compliance with Flynn's plan. Of all the women Jesse had ever met, even if only for a few brief moments, Mrs. White had always been the most intimidating.

"I asked him to come, Mom," Flynn clarified, defending a terrified Jesse. Skyler's eyes didn't budge, and her glare burned a hole right through the tattered man.

"I see," she growled, refusing to blink even once, "This is a mistake Flynn: a very stupid mistake. How could you possibly think this would make anything better?" She now was looking angrily to her son, who did not falter under the intensity of her glare as Jesse had. Instead, he offered his mother a knowing look.

"I've watched you struggle for years now," he replied solemnly, and he saw something in his mother's hardened exterior break, "When I saw Jesse a few days ago, I knew he had, too." Pinkman kept his gaze to the floor, and Skyler kept hers on Pinkman. Offended by the parallel her son had drawn, she scoffed.

"Yes, I'm sure this junkie has had it _real_ hard," she hissed back, and Jesse couldn't bring himself to react. Why should she care if he had struggled? Her kid was stupid to get mixed up in his life, Jesse knew that much. Nevertheless, Flynn stepped to his defense.

"Considering he's spent the better part of eight years homeless and in hiding, all because of what _Walter _did and pushed him to do, I would say he has 'had it hard'," Flynn snapped, "I would think you of all people would know what horrible things we'll do when we're scared." Skylar swallowed guiltily, hurt still evident in her lost eyes. Jesse was taken aback, to say the least, that Heisenberg's kid would defend him to that degree. Hearing the officer say his father's first name, a name that belonged to him once, with such disgust, allowed Jesse to see again the damage that Mr. White had brought upon his family.

"You cannot possibly compare the minor things I did to his countless crimes," Skyler choked, already too preoccupied with the horrible memories of her husband in the last bit of time they spent together, "I did those things to protect us; because I was terrified of what he was capable of. This—this _delinquent_ had been in the business well before he ever teamed up with Walt."

"Your husband blackmailed me," Jesse piped before Flynn could get in a word of retaliation, "What, you think I wanted to join him?" Skyler glared at him, biting her lip, but Jesse knew she'd never given any thought to how they had teamed up. "He told me he'd turn me in to get me to work with him. He told me I was nothing. He let my girlfriend die right in front of him. He poisoned a fucking _child. _He did all these things, all as part of some elaborate plan to keep me cooking with him. You want to talk about scared? That guy scared the _shit_ out of me. I thought I was dead, like, every day I worked with him. And in the end, while you were sitting at home crying about your criminal husband, I was in a fucking cage, yo. You think I liked doing this stuff like he did? I wanted out just as much as you did, lady."

Jesse didn't know what had gotten into him, but her thinking that he did all those things gladly ignited fury in his heart that he hadn't felt in a long time. Tears glazed his angry eyes again, and he cursed himself for being so weak. He could feel a single drop slip from his lashes and nest itself into the crease where the scar would always be on his face. The room was silent; Flynn had stepped back from the conversation and simply watched as pain seemed to flow like blood between the two others in the kitchen.

"Sit down," Skyler uttered, clearly beside herself. Jesse had just regained his composure, and it took him a few seconds to process her request. He sat across from the frail woman, and for the first time, he knew he had found someone who could understand. He only hoped that she knew that, too.


	7. Chapter 7

Hot coffee scorched the back of Flynn's throat as he peered out of the grimy car windows and watched over the neighborhood. He almost expected the homes and cars and streetlamps to melt under the intensity of the midday Albuquerque sun, which beat powerfully against the black pavement below. The old car's air conditioning was barely functional, and Flynn wished he had considered some other means of caffeinating himself besides coffee; perhaps a drink that might cool him down. He cursed the APD for not putting funding in for some quality, air-conditioned police vehicles as he gripped the busted steering wheel watchfully.

"You always seem so alert, kid," Reyes snorted from the passenger's seat, "It's almost as if stuff actually happens around here." Flynn ignored the older man, who was now fanning himself with the newspaper he had been reading. The sweating officer coughed violently for a few moments, sending a chill up his partner's spine as the young man thought of his father, who he'd come to know by the forceful hacking that would echo throughout any room he'd enter.

Flynn's mind slipped back to the night before; his mother and Jesse Pinkman had sat together and actually spoken. That feat alone made him forget how tired he was the following morning. He was rough on her, but he understood how difficult it was for his mother to speak to Jesse, and he understood how difficult it was for Jesse to face his ex-partner's wife after all that happened. Despite all of that, the three of them had spent all night talking, finally sorting things out a bit after eight long years of resentment and misunderstanding.

And now he was back here, watching over the same neighborhood for the billionth time it seemed. If he was being honest, the entire reason he signed up for the whole police officer thing was because he wanted a bit of excitement in his life. After years of barely being able to walk, Flynn craved a little action, and he worked hard to get to where he was with his health and motor skills: all of that effort just so he could sit in some busted car and watch tumbleweeds roll by.

An hour went by, then two, and Flynn still hadn't spoken a single word. On many occasions Reyes would try to make conversation, but Flynn was too lost in thought to indulge him. Even though he thought that the situation last night would give everyone some closure, he still couldn't keep those thoughts out of his head. He was fixated on Jesse, the walking tragedy, the man who life had persistently kicked around. The thought that twisted his heart into knots and pounded against his skull was how much of a shame it was that Pinkman's life had turned out that way. As a man who had been driven by justice since his father was found out to be a drug lord, Flynn felt like it was his responsibility to make amends to the calamity that was the aftermath of the Heisenberg incident. Now he knew that Jesse was the foremost of those responsibilities.

"White, did you see that?" Reyes barked, shoving Flynn' shoulder too get his attention, "Jesus kid, get your head out of the clouds. I saw some figures running behind that old house on the left." The younger officer peered around to the greying house but saw no movement.

"Should we check it out?" Flynn asked seriously, peering around the neighborhood once more. Like a jungle cat, his allowed his eyes to flicker at any sign of movement, carefully searching for any wrongdoers scurrying between houses. Reyes nodded, which Flynn only saw in the fraction of a second that he took his eyes off the surrounding area.

Both men pushed open their car doors, stepping out into the unrelenting sun. They gripped their belts as the ventured toward the dull house down the road. They simultaneously stepped into the dry grass, which crunched beneath their shoes as they walked around to the side of the property. Reyes waved at Flynn, who peered cautiously around the side of the house.

A group of four teenage boys stood, cans of spray paint clicking in their hands as they shook them. They were all sporting baggy clothes; two of them wore backwards hip-hop hats, and one had a cigarette dangling from his lips. Three of them sniggered as the dark-haired boy began spray-painting the faded siding.

"Hey!" Flynn shouted, stepping into view, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, shit!" one of the boys yelped in surprise, and within a few seconds, they had dropped their cans and sprinted out of sight. Reyes chuckled from behind Flynn, waving his hand indifferently.

"Just a couple of kids," he wheezed, picking up a spray can. He turned it over once in his palm and tossed it to the grass, spinning to walk back to the car. Flynn stayed in place for a few moments, and then proceeded to gather up the cans. He didn't really think he should just leave them there.

He was walking away, a few steps in front of the house but still out of sight from the car, when he heard the grass rustle behind him. He turned around quietly, walking back to the scene he had just left. Rummaging through the grass was one of the boys: the one who had been spraying the house.

"Hey kid!"

The teenager in the grass leapt up as if he was about to run. Flynn held out his hand, trying to get him to stay in place.

"I dropped my phone," the boy explained in an alarmed voice, edging backwards to try to escape, "Look, Officer, it won't happen again." Flynn folded his arms and sighed.

"I'm not gonna arrest you or anything," the young man explained, "I just want to talk." The boy gave him a derisive look in response.

"You want to 'talk', huh?" he laughed, "That's what all you pigs say." Flynn folded his arms across his chest, allowing anger to diffuse onto his face.

"If you call me pig again," he warned, taking a threatening step toward the boy, "Then you're right, this won't end well for you." The kid now folded his arms across his chest, making no attempt at escape. Flynn almost respected how the kid faced him instead of trying to scurry away.

"Okay _Officer_, what would you like to 'talk' about?" the boy replied snidely, a smirk spreading onto his young face. Flynn relaxed a bit, trying to keep the young man's attention.

"Well," he began casually, "I for one was curious as to why a kid like you would need a gun." Something flashed in the boy's dark eyes, and he peered down to the waist of his oversized jeans where the grip of a handgun was peeking out.

"What's it to you?" he retaliated, but Flynn could see in his eyes that he was panicking now.

"Do you have a license for that?" the officer asked casually, stepping closer to the teenager.

"What? I don't need any license, man," the kid mumbled, stumbling away from the officer.

"To conceal a handgun in the state of New Mexico?" Flynn replied astutely, "Yes you do."

For several moments, the two of them were frozen in time, standing a few feet apart beside the old, faded house. Flynn waited for the kid to

explain, but the officer knew that whatever the reason, he couldn't possibly tell Flynn why he had the weapon. Flynn was already pretty sure

why he had it…

"What do you want me to tell you?" the kid blurted rudely, throwing up his arms. Flynn ran a hand through his sweat-glazed hair, staring back at the boy with a look of compassion.

"I don't want you to tell me anything," he replied to the kid's surprise. Flynn let the air grow silent once more before he continued. "I want to tell you, though, that you don't have to do this. You can always come to us."

Panic flooded the kid's eyes, followed by tears that became entrapped by his thick eyelashes.

"No, I can't," he choked back, eyes shifting to each side as if he'll be seen, "They'll kill me."

Flynn felt his heart drop. He couldn't even imagine how dangerous these street gangs could get.

"We'll keep you safe if you call," Flynn assured the boy, who was attempting to regain his hardened exterior, "I promise…" the officer began,

but faltered, "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't," the boy coughed, rubbing the back of his neck uneasily, "It's Brock."

"I promise we'll keep you safe, Brock."


	8. Chapter 8

For the first time in years, Jesse felt normal. It was eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, and the young man stood under the dangling 'aisle 3' sign in the local grocery store, ears drinking in sounds like the deep rolling of shopping carts and the shuffling of boxed pasta and soda bottles on the shelves. Like many of the days when Flynn was on the job, Jesse would go out into the town and get some fresh air, promising to lay low. Today, instead of those baggy drifter clothes that normally drowned him, Jesse was sporting a clean button-down shirt and a pair of well-fitted khakis. His normally disheveled hair was combed back neatly, and his face was completely shaven. There wasn't much he could do about the scars, but fortunately they had faded over the years and didn't draw nearly the amount of attention that they used to.

He couldn't help but chuckle a bit as he found the snack food aisle, which was adorned with all sorts of chips and sodas. Something sad flickered inside him as he picked up a bag of Funyuns, thinking way too hard about whether or not to put them in his basket. He motioned to return them to their perch, something other than the salt content repelling him from his once favorite snack. As he placed the neon yellow bag back on the shelf, he couldn't seem to pull away. Something about them gave him a warm feeling, even if they reminded him of a past he wished he could just forget. Without thinking, he tossed the bag into his basket and continued down the aisle. _Jesus, he probably looked ridiculous._

As he rounded the corner, he found his way into the canned foods aisle. He walked slowly, enjoying the anonymity he felt, just another customer restocking on food for the week. He studied the cans, playing the role of an average citizen and loving that for an hour or so, he didn't have to be Jesse Pinkman. It was funny how he had travelled so far after all that happened, and it wasn't until now that he could really get away from who he was. He had no identity, no past to these people. It had been so long since his name had been spoken in Albuquerque. If he was lucky, no one would speak it again.

As he contemplated a can of beans, he heard the pattering of tiny footsteps behind him. Two children, a boy and a girl, were chasing after one another with no parent in sight. Both had dark curly hair and looked about four or five. The girl caught up to her brother, tugging at her doll to try to get it back from him. Jesse was the only other person in the aisle with them, but he wasn't about to yell at someone else's kids. He pretended that he wasn't watching as they wrestled each other to the ground, both grasping for the doll. Within a few seconds, he heard a crash. The children had knocked down a row of cans, which reverberated on the tile floor and rolled loudly throughout the aisle.

"Hey," Jesse said firmly to the children, panicking at the attention they could be drawing to him but seeing no way out of the long aisle. He looked at the kids, who had stopped fighting and seemed to not know what they had just done. Both looked up at him with scared blue eyes, afraid that this stranger was going to shout at them. Jesse swallowed, bending down to stop a rolling can and picked it up. "Why don't you two help me put these back?"

They complied, each bending down to take an item into their tiny hands and place it back onto the shelf. They had knocked over quite a bit, so it took the three of them a while to clean up the entire mess. Thank god nothing burst; the only thing they had to do was move the cans back onto the sides of the aisle. Jesse helped the kids put the cans on the higher shelves, and the lane began to slowly clear up.

"There you two are!" Jesse heard a man shout from the end of the aisle. The two kids straightened up guiltily, but Jesse continued to gather the last few cans. Their father walked towards them, seeing what had happened and seeing the stranger sprawled on the floor to clean up the mess his kids had made. "Look, man, I'm so sorry about this," he said, placing a meaty hand on Jesse's shoulder, "they run off sometimes; I can't keep up with them."

"Hey, no worries," Jesse replied, standing up and turning to face the man. Just then, his heart stopped. He looked at him for only a second before he started to walk hastily away. Sure, he had some stubble now, the occasional grey hair springing from his curly brown locks. Sure, his gut had gotten a little bit bigger and he seemed to have formed bags under his eyes.

But that was definitely Badger.

"Jesse?" the man said softly, just when the shorter man was almost out of the aisle. He considered not stopping, dropping his basket in some other aisle and walking out of that store never to return. In fact, he'd leave Albuquerque. How the hell did he expect to not be recognized around here anyway? It was an enticing thought; maybe he could live out the rest of his days in Alaska like he once planned, or he could attempt to end his life somewhere else besides the doorstep of his old girlfriend. I mean, it didn't matter once you were dead, right?

Jesse had no idea what had possessed him to turn around. He didn't know why he walked back to Badger with tears prickling at his eyes and his head cocked slightly to one side. Badger looked around, and seeing no one else in the aisle, walked at a brisk pace to meet his old friend, who suddenly looked like he'd fall apart at any moment. Jesse was as skinny and small as when Badger had first met him when they were kids. He looked both different and the same; his face and body didn't seem to have aged at all since the last time Badger had seen him, but his troubled eyes were those of an old man.

"I thought you were dead," he said simply, running his gaze over his long-lost friend. Jesse gulped, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up to meet Badger's eyes. They were fenced with crow's feet, but they still took Jesse back to the countless pranks, video game matches, and smoke sessions the boys experienced together.

"That was probably for the best, Badger," Jesse replied sadly, still nervous that someone might walk by and grow suspicious. The taller man laughed, his eyes defying him.

"Do you know how long it's been since anyone has called me that?" he asked the shorter man, looking off fondly, "God, I miss it." Jesse stared up at his friend, confused.

"So you and Skinny don't talk anymore, then?" Jesse asked, wondering what had changed. For some reason, after seeing Badger again, it seemed like yesterday that the three of them were hanging out in the town. It couldn't have possibly been eight and a half years.

"Pete got busted selling like five years back," he explained, holding each of his kids to his legs as he spoke, "Since Saul split back around the same time as you, it's been harder for those caught selling to get off with a good deal. Skinny's still at Los Lunas doing time." Jesse stared at his friend incredulously, never once imagining in his young life that Badger or Skinny Pete would go to jail for more than like, a year.

"And what about you?" he asked, growing serious, "Please tell me you're not still in the business." Badger looked down at Jesse with surprised eyes and shook his shaggy head.

"Relax, dude," he replied, "I've been out of the game since these guys were born." He put each of his hands on a head of curly dark hair.

Jesse stared at the two children, who both resembled Badger quite a bit, in a good way.

"This one here," he explained, patting the head of the little girl, "Her name is Crystal." Jesse rolled his eyes when Badger wasn't looking. _God, he hoped that wasn't a meth reference._

Badger looked to the boy next, who was studying his sister's doll in his hands. "This other one's name is Christian," he said softly, looking at the boy with loving eyes that Jesse had never seen on his friend, "I wanted to do Combo proud, you know? I've been missing him more and more since Skinny went away. These guys were born like, a month after he got arrested." Jesse smiled at the two kids, bittersweet feelings overwhelming him.

"Combo would have loved to meet these guys," he said to Badger, who nodded with a sad smile, "I'm glad I got to meet them."

Another cart rolled into the end of the aisle, and Jesse turned to go, knowing that he couldn't risk drawing attention to himself. Badger followed him, not wanting for the conversation to end. Perhaps the man had been as lonely as he was for the past several years.

"How long are you staying?" Badger asked quickly, "In Albuquerque, I mean." Jesse smiled sadly back at him.

"Probably not long," he replied, distancing himself from his friend, who looked like an abandoned puppy as he drifted slowly away.

"Hey," he said calmly while they were still out of earshot from the other shopper. He caught the man's blue eyes, maybe the last time he would. Staring directly at him he whispered, "You're a good guy, Jesse."

Jesse had no idea why Badger had said that, but for some reason, it made him feel a million times better.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a quiet that filled the house as the sunlight burst through the window, the atmosphere as bright as it was every day in Albuquerque at noon. Two young men sat in silence at the table, not exactly uncomfortable but a little out of place in the unremarkable suburban home. A blonde woman stood, leaning against the kitchen counter as she half-listened to a conversation over the phone. Skyler sipped at a warm cup of coffee, eying the men at the table with concern as she pressed the cell snug against her cheek.

Marie had been talking her ear off for thirty minutes now and, like always, Skyler allowed her to get it all out of her system. As much as she hated to admit it, her younger, eccentric sister had come out of the whole Heisenberg ordeal much better than Skyler herself had. Perhaps it was due to her sister's denying, carefree nature, or maybe it was because _her_ husband didn't turn out to be the key player of the most powerful drug empire in the United States. Nevertheless, while Skyler had spent the last eight years wallowing in hopelessness, Marie had long since moved on.

"His name is Devon," she prattled about some new man she had met at the DMV, "He's an orthopedic surgeon. Would you believe it? Divorced, rich, and a total silver fox if you ask me. He has two kids, though, which isn't too much of a deal breaker since they're both in high school and spend most of the time with their mother anyway. I mean, we've only been on two dates but I'm telling you, Sky, I feel like we have some real potential."

Skyler moaned in agreement as she had been doing for the last six years since Marie started dating regularly again. She let her sister yammer on about Devon just as she had for George and Chris and Rodney and all the other names that came and went. Skyler had already prepared for the conversation that would come in a few weeks: the one detailing why things with Devon didn't work out and how Marie never really _saw _herself marrying him in the long run. She knew her sister would make some comment dripping with thinly-veiled condescension about how she should do what Skyler's been doing and 'focus on herself.' And Skyler would 'hmm' in response.

But she had to cut the conversation short this time. She had actually invited Flynn and- she still couldn't believe it-Jesse Pinkman over for lunch. She had given it a lot of thought, and as much as she hated to admit it, it actually felt good to talk to somebody about the whole ordeal. Sure, there was always Marie, but the only comfort her sister could offer was to talk about how horrible of a man her former husband was. While she believed every word of it, that sort of dialogue only served to make her feel worse. Marie hadn't experienced all of that pain firsthand. Marie was not as close to Walt as she had been: as Jesse had been.

Jesse was unique because he spoke as a person who had really cared about her husband, no matter how much pain it caused him: a perspective that was as refreshing as a cool drink of water in the middle of the Albuquerque desert. She never knew how much she needed to hear his side of things, and she still wouldn't admit to how much she enjoyed his company. She'd have him over from time to time, always using her son as a buffer in case it seemed for a moment that she actually liked having Pinkman around. He got her to talk in a way that she hadn't since she found out about Walt's criminal actions. It was such a cliché thing to say, but she could feel the weight of the past near-decade lifted from her shoulders. It was as if, after years of trudging in the shadows, there was finally a light at the end of this Heisenberg tunnel.

"Sky?" the muffled voice echoed into her ear, "Skyler, are you still there?"

"Yes, Marie, I'm still here," she murmured, holding the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Flynn and Jesse were sitting patiently at the kitchen table, and Skyler held up a finger to indicate that she was close to hanging up. They could hear Marie chattering through the phone even from their seats, and Jesse didn't know how to feel at the sound of a voice he hadn't heard in ages. His usual go-to emotion for that sort of thing was guilt, and it was a fitting one for the women whose husband died right in front of him. He shivered, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that was creeping into his stomach.

"You don't mind if I stop by, do you Sky?" she piped, inviting herself over as usual. Skyler's pale blue eyes flickered with panic, scanning the two young men sitting at the kitchen table before uttering a worried reply.

"Uh, actually Marie," she stammered, staring directly at Jesse, "Now's not a good time." The scruffy man could sense what was going on and began to panic himself.

"Hm, that's too bad," Marie hummed on the other end of the phone, "Because I just pulled into the neighborhood. I'm just gonna check in." At this Skyler began to pace, running a thin-fingered hand through her loose blonde hair before responding.

"Marie, really. Don't," she insisted, practically shouting through the phone, "Now is a really bad time." Jesse tensed up, preparing to stand from his chair to leave. Skyler stood in silence, waiting for her sister to reply.

"Have you been drinking again?" Marie questioned, and Skyler had never felt so patronized. After all the years that she had gotten on her younger sister about her stealing or lying or mouthing off, the tables had finally turned. Skyler was horrified that Marie would even ask such a question.

"Marie, no," she swore, "It isn't that." Skyler waited again for her sister's voice, practically feeling her disbelief through the phone.

"I just pulled into the driveway," Marie replied quietly, "I'm coming in."

Skyler ran to the front of her house, peering out the window only to see the purple figure drawing near. She locked the front door just as Marie reached into her purse, pulling out the spare key she had practically forced Skyler to give her. It was not uncommon for Marie to check up on her from time to time given the depressed state she was constantly in, but now was the worst possible moment for her to arrive. Soon, she was knocking on the door.

"I'm not leaving until you let me in, Sky!" Marie yellowed through the door, jiggling the knob and pushing against her sister's weight. Skyler tried to keep it shut, but she was awfully weak these days. It wasn't before long that Marie had pushed her way in, an offended scowl etched onto her pale face.

"What is the matter with you?" Skyler screamed at her sister, who winced at her outburst. Marie stood her ground, shouting back with the same strength.

"I'm your sister!" she retorted with the same look she always used when she didn't see anything wrong with her actions, "So sue me for making sure you weren't drinking yourself into a stupor!" Skyler crossed her arms, blocking her sister from the kitchen.

"Well, here you have it. Sober as ever," she scowled, gesturing over herself, "Now if you would please go…"

"Is that Flynn I see?" she asked, pushing Skyler aside. The older sister quickly tugged at her purple cardigan, keeping her from walking any further. Marie squirmed, trying to break free from Skyler's grasp. "Can't a woman visit with her nephew?"

"Aunt Marie,.." Flynn began hesitantly, standing and holding up his hands to keep her from going any further. She smiled up at the young man, forgetting about the fuming woman behind her.

"How are you, sweetie?" she asked, holding out her sweater-clad arms, "Give your aunt a hug!" Flynn obliged, wrapping her is an embrace and trying to turn her away from the kitchen as her chin rested on his shoulder. Unfortunately, it was too late.

"Who's your friend?"

The room fell silent. Flynn felt his aunt's arms around him slacken as she stumbled backwards not believing what she saw. Skyler and Flynn stood side by side with matching wary faces as Marie drank in the scene in front of her. Jesse straightened in his chair, blue eyes wide and flashing with fright.

"Hello, Mrs. Schrader."

**Author's note: Sorry that these chapters seem a bit disconnected and random. It'll all connect in the end (I hope). :-)**


	10. Chapter 10

This moment was as many moments had been in the last couple weeks for Jesse: seemingly frozen in time and drenched in tension so palpable that you could cut it with knife. And, as had been the case for many of the familiar faces he's encountered in his return to ABQ, there was nothing he could say to Marie Schrader that would make things right.

So there they remained, Skyler and Flynn frozen in place with worry-etched faces, Marie with unblinking eyes that begged to understand, and Jesse who, as usual, had no fucking clue what was to come. And in that interminable moment, all of those ideas ran through his head as they always would. _I shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have stayed. I should be dead._

He could sense that the moment was ending, though, and Jesse knew he'd have to prepare for the worst. To be honest, he wouldn't blame her if she screamed, if she waved her arms, even if she sprinted towards him and clawed his eyes out with her long, painted fingernails. She must have known that the men who killed her husband were only there because of him. However she was about to react, Jesse would understand.

Except he didn't understand why Marie was crying, dabbing her eyes with the collar of her purple sweater. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why she was hugging him, her tears staining the shoulder of his pale blue shirt.

"Thank god you're okay," she sobbed, squeezing Jesse with arms like boa constrictors. The young man had no clue how to respond, growing tense in the embrace of a hysterical Marie. The other two in the room stood dumbfounded, searching for any sign of anger or resentment from the woman collapsed onto their former junkie of a houseguest. Surely she had lost her mind.

"Aunt Marie?" Flynn asked, afraid to approach his mother's bawling sister, "Do you know who this is?" At the sound of her nephew's voice, Marie removed her face from the area on Jesse's shoulder where it had been planted. Wiping her eyes, she stood as she responded.

"Of course I know," she whispered, brushing herself off to regain her composure, "I just didn't realize he was alive." She let her gaze brush over Jesse's features, lingering on the roughness where his scars would always be. "I thought Walt might have…" she stammered, trying not to think about where she was going with this sentence. Flynn was still confused.

"Have you two met?" he asked, still not understanding why she wasn't currently trying to slaughter Pinkman in his chair. Flynn could see that Jesse was just as taken aback by her softness.

"Yes," she spoke quietly, tear-glazed eyes fixed on the tile floor, "He helped lead your Uncle Hank to Walter." The emotion began to drain from her face, and her expression grew into something grave. "He told us everything."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" Flynn demanded from the shaking woman. Although the rift between Skyler and Marie had grown since the ordeal eight years ago, Flynn had still been close to his aunt. Unlike his mother, Marie was often more than willing to talk to him about how deplorable his father was. Yet she never once mentioned even meeting Pinkman, let alone working with him. Skyler noticed the anger that preoccupied her son's expression, and she decided to interject.

"That was the last thing you needed to hear at the time, honey," she responded softly, which didn't seem to make him any less irritated, "You were already going through enough without knowing the entire story of what was going on." Flynn was nearly shaking with rage at this point, but fortunately, his police training had taught him to control his emotions in stressful situations. Still, he had always hated how much both of his parents tried to shelter him from the truth. Before he could piece together a response for his mother, Jesse spoke up in a raspy voice.

"Why do you not hate me right now?" he asked Marie, almost amused by the lack of logic in her reaction, "I'm the reason your husband is dead, yo!" Jesse expected that his admission might knock some sense into the batty older woman, or at least evoke some kind of emotion, but Marie simply stared at the man with a skeptical raise of her brows.

"You murdered Hank?" she asked him directly, placing her hands on her hips. Jesse was unprepared for such a straightforward question, and he could only stammer in response.

"I'm the reason he's dead," he repeated nervously. Marie was still unconvinced.

"What makes you say that, exactly?" she shot back aggressively, assigning her full attention to the repentant man. Jesse explained what he was sure she must have already known.

"If I had never told Hank about Mr. White, he would have never been there in the desert when Jack and his crew showed up and shot him," the young man expounded, shivering at his own mention of Jack Welker. He couldn't help but choke at the flashes of memory that pervaded his mind when he mentioned that crazy Nazi bastard.

"And if Walt's parents hadn't conceived him, none of this shit would have happened," Marie reasoned, disorienting Jesse even more, "Sometimes, people are indirectly part of the reason why bad things come about. That doesn't at all mean they're at fault." Marie did not remove her stare from the younger man, making sure he took in every word she spoke. "_Hank_ chose to go out into the desert and find Walt. _Hank _decided to handle things himself. This Jack guy was the one who actually killed him. And Walt was the whole reason he was even there. You are no more to blame for his death than I am: probably less so, actually. I was the one who encouraged him to go after Walt every time I opened my mouth. But if I can forgive myself, I can certainly forgive you."

Jesse was left speechless by her reasoning, never once considering that he wasn't the cause for Hank's death. Mr. White was certainly upset, holding Jesse responsible and punishing him for it by telling him that Jane didn't have to die like she did. He was surrounded constantly by the ghosts of people who didn't have to go, finding himself accountable for each untimely death. With all of that on his shoulders, he could not believe for a moment that Marie Schrader didn't blame him.

"I'm so sorry that all of this happened," he whispered, looking up to the tall woman with resignation. Marie simply nodded.

"Me too," she responded, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder and feeling the connection to Jesse that she had felt when the kid stayed at their house all those years ago "But we shouldn't hate each other. The real devil is long dead, and we're all that's left."

Jesse smiled weakly, knowing that Marie was right and could somehow understand him more than he understood himself in these past years. Digging up these feelings felt like staring into the aftermath of an explosion: a blast that was large enough to ruin everything they held dear. And the shadows of who they used to be were all that had emerged from the rubble.

But for the first time in nearly a decade, Jesse considered that maybe, one day, he'd be whole again.


	11. Chapter 11

If there was one lesson Jesse Pinkman had learned in his days, it's that bad things happen like, all the time. Innocents die; the corrupt seem to always win. And no matter how bad your problems seem at the moment, they can always, _always_, get worse.

But sometimes, against all odds, things in life fall elegantly into place like pieces of a puzzle. That's how it felt now to Jesse, who perched a calming cigarette in his lips as he eyed the other man over his newspaper. In his short time back in ABQ, he'd witnessed a family getting some semblance of the closure they'd been craving for years. He'd been reassured that the lives he'd left behind weren't in total ruin. And now, specifically, he and Flynn White were having coffee, almost as if they were friends. Just that idea seemed impossible.

"I've been thinking about finding a place up North, you know?" Jesse uttered conversationally, "As much as I've missed it, I can't stay in Albuquerque forever." There was a lull, and the officer nodded with his mug pressed to his lips, swallowing coolly before responding.

"That's good, Jesse," he replied, eyes saturated in sincerity. And there they were, the chills. Jesse could never help but shudder over the irony: the fact that Flynn could not have sounded more like his father.

Minutes of comfortable silence passed, with Jesse's eyes lost in the ink print of the Albuquerque Journal, skimming over boring news stories as if his only worries in life were the local comings and goings in the land of enchantment. He enjoyed the normalcy of the setup, of being just a man with a newspaper. He was enjoying it so much that he wasn't even reading the words on the paper inches away from his face. That is, until he saw a name that he recognized.

The news article was regarding a student from his old high school, from the looks of it. Valedictorian of J.P. Wynne's Class of 2018, the girl from the article was adorned with metals and surrounded by certificates. In the black print, her list of accomplishments fills every available inch of newspaper. The article itself didn't particularly interest Jesse, who would have no such thing dedicated to his own high school achievements of dealing the best pot and skipping the most consecutive days of any student in his class. But something about the kid in the picture made his heart jump inexplicably. And it only takes a moment for Jesse's eyes to scan the caption underneath.

**Kaylee Ehrmantraut, 18**

He didn't know how to feel when he read her name. He had known _of_ Kaylee; the prospect of dead-eyed Mike having a granddaughter was always a funny thought to call back on on those days when he was being especially asshole-ish. But in the little he did think about her, he always hoped that she'd be okay after everything that happened, because he knew that's what Mike would have wanted. Just thinking about Mike now, after eight fucking years, was making Jesse's eyes water like hell. If only he could see what she's become, how accomplished she was. She would make him so proud.

_That makes one of us, _Jesse thought to himself. He couldn't bear to imagine what Mike would think of him if he were still alive. Probably that he was pathetic, or weak, not that Mike ever saw him as particularly strong, given that he was a junkie from the day they first met. Still, it felt like the old man had faith in him once. Jesse almost felt like he was letting the guy down somehow, being just as lost now as he was eight years back.

After the many quiet moments he spent staring at the paper, remembering a man he was tempted to call an old friend, Jesse snapped back to reality. He decided he would try to do right by Mike, if he could. He would try to at least find happiness or meaning in his life even if it seemed impossible. Jesse smiled one last time at the photo in the newspaper, hoping that if there were any sort of afterlife, Mike was smiling too. Not that he ever saw the old bastard smile when he was alive, but it was a nice sentiment.

"I'm thinking about Alaska," he told the other man, turning over the newspaper without another thought about Mike. Flynn nodded back to him, surprised to hear him speak after such a long silence. But Jesse was talking more to himself anyway.


End file.
